


New Destiny

by LediShae



Series: Primus' Blessing [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7928089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LediShae/pseuds/LediShae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Orion Pax to Optimus Prime, life has changed dramatically for the former dockworker. The battle for Cybertron continues to rage, but the many betrayals by Sentinel Prime that nearly obliterated the Autobots are still being discovered. Can Optimus earn the trust of the current Autobot commanders enough to resurrect belief in the title of Prime?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changing Times

**Author's Note:**

> All rights belong to Hasbro, Takara and all others who have jumped on the marketing/production bandwagon. Most storyline inspiration comes from G1 cartoons and TFwiki.net with a hefty dose of artistic licence. Characters are taken at random from all other storylines and universes, and may be OOC from their usual representation.

Dark flames and smoke rose from the battlefield. Mechs cried in agony. Every able-bodied spark with any medical training worked from one writhing form to the next, giving aid when they could. No one watched too closely, they did not want to see the healers giving _mercy_. It was unthinkable or had been long ago, for a medic to kill a patient. Out here, though, hard choices had to be made. When one had to balance the medic’s abilities against the injuries they faced – no, no one wanted to face those odds.

Questro’s hands shook, too many had terminated, this one wouldn’t last long. Soon the soldier would gutter. Fluids gushed from every line, sparks crackled over her frame. She didn’t have the tools to fix her, death would be a mercy.

“Don’t,” Wheeljack’s iron grip stopped Questro’s shaking hand. “Ratchet is still alive, we just have to find him again. Put them in stasis. _He will_ know what to do.”

“But, this much damage?” She looked to Wheeljack with a keening whimper. The femme below her hands looked melted, parts missing, the poor spark had so much damage her frame could only shiver.

“I’ve watched him mend worse,” Wheeljack promised and moved among the injured. Autobots, Decepticons; he held to Ratchet’s teachings: All life was sacred. He glanced over at the commanders, all were standing around Optimus, the self-claimed Prime. Wheeljack wanted Optimus to be a Prime, wanted to believe the voice that resonated to his spark, but after Sentinel, how could they ever trust another Prime?

*|*

“We can’t trust him!” Ironhide demanded. Optics shifted from Optimus to the two fighters he had brought with him to the battlefield.

“We have to! Can’t you feel it in your spark? This is a _Prime_.” Elita countered, uncertainty filled her optics despite her vehemence.

“Are we supposed to blindly follow outdated programming? We felt his presence and followed him despite all warnings that something was not right. ” Ultra Magnus demanded, hands wide, optics hard.

The yelling continued. Optimus remained silent and tried not to show how painful their argument was. Ultra Magnus, Elita One, Ironhide; their suspicion in accepting him as their Prime was for the best interests of their troops. Knowing they looked after the soldiers made their words slightly less bitter to listen to. He was grateful for the battle mask his new form held, it was the only thing that kept him from keening the grief this ordeal caused him.

Was this a punishment? To be judged for Sentinel’s wrongdoings? Had he already lost Elita? He looked the group over and knew what he had to do. He would offer himself as a soldier, and serve.

“Enough,” Prowl stepped forward. He looked around their group, meeting optics all around, “As acting commanders Jazz and I have a vested interest in keeping our troops alive. We want our soldiers safe, cared for and a new, tactically superior location to regroup. I propose a trial period, length undetermined. If this mech proves himself to our collective satisfaction, we will accept him as our Prime, but this does not guarantee that we must follow his lead.”

“And if he don’t, he abdicates the Matrix,” Ironhide demanded, optics and voice hard.

Optimus felt an icy tendril trace through his spark. ‘Undetermined amount of time.’ Would they even hear out his suggestions? How was a Prime supposed to pry the Matrix from his chest anyways? “I agree to these terms.”

All optics landed on him, Optimus held their gaze and tried not to look away. “Throughout history, a Prime has led unquestioned. Whenever one fell, another was chosen to take his place. Sentinel Prime broke the trust inherent within the position of Prime. I will not pretend that I know his motives. I can only ask for you to give me this one chance, however long that lasts. Should I fail you, I will relinquish all standings within the ranks, and the Matrix if it is within my capacity to do so.”

“Good,” Prowl turned on his heel, a ping urged Optimus to follow. He wasn’t alone. Other commanders moved amongst the wreckage to aid in the recovery effort, but Elita, Magnus Ironhide, Steelhand and Afterburn followed Prowl as well.

Optimus scanned the smoking ruins of the battlefield as they walked away, he had promised Sunstreaker and Sideswipe repairs. He felt their optics on his plating, and suppressed a shiver, he held no doubts that the two would find a way to terminate him if he backed out of his promise. Not being able to pick them up on his scanners only made him more uncomfortable with this whole situation.

*|*

:: He’s walking away!:: Sunstreaker snarled across their bond. Sideswipe responded with a mental snort. They watched in jaded silence as Optimus walked with his pack of followers in glory. In a way, Sides missed how things had been, when he and his brother had been different mechs. Back then, their bond had passed emotions between them, when Sunstreaker had been mad enough Sideswipe had even _seen_ what his brother had been pummeling, and what was left of the poor slagger afterward.

Now, it was just the surface thoughts, they had become strangers in a way. An idle thought of walking away from his brother tickled Sideswipe’s mind, and cold terror froze his spark. No, he couldn’t. Sideswipe moved through the wreckage of several Cons, he knew where his brother was, knew what his brother saw. Without sensing his brother, he wouldn’t feel safe, not anymore. They had been fighting together for too long, been trapped with only each other to just separate. It would be impossible to go solo, and not go mad. Could they even function without each other in their processors anymore? Had they ever?

Sunstreaker glowered at his brother. Nobody cared. _Stupid slaggers!_ It wasn’t surprising. _We saved them._ They were hideous now, cables exposed from their plating, armor rent and rusted. _He promised._ Since the battle ceased, no one had even looked at them. They should have never trusted Optimus. _What is a Prime?_ The Autobots raced to their fallen and injured, they argued over keeping Optimus or kicking him out. _Their loss, he’s got more firepower._

Sunstreaker glowered at the world once more then turned to the battlefield. The good little Autobots were so worried about wasting resources on the dying. They wouldn’t miss a few weapons and spare parts. Sunstreaker looked over the fallen figures and ignored the vibrations in his chest. They had been cramming spare parts into themselves since the Rings had claimed them. Whatever had remained from their frames originally had either been replaced or added to, the worst of the broken pieces cut away.

The curmudgeons had replaced assemblies if they got ruined in the fights, otherwise, they were on their own. Sunstreaker hid a grimace as his pump pulsed strangely. _Ugh, time for a swap out._ He wasn’t looking forward to it. Neither he nor his brother knew much about putting a mech together, but they had taken enough apart to know which side of a fuel pump went where. He just needed to find a compatible model still in one piece. They couldn’t keep welding more plating over the ones they already had, some parts were losing functionality. He really did not want to be the stupid aft that terminated from a seized fuel pump.

“Autobot scum!” A voice roared, Sunstreaker felt a hand clamp over his back, fingers wrapped around his shoulders and thighs. His chest hurt, fuel pump stuttered, he felt weak. Suddenly was flying, Rura Penthe loomed, grew closer –

“ _Sunny!_ ” Sideswipe felt the scream rip from his throat but couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t sense his brother – he was alone. Mind-numbing terror slammed into his processors, silencing the world and holding him mute. Suddenly a giant white mech stood before him. Sideswipe only felt frozen. The mech’s mouth moved, only silence reigned. Claws ripped at white plating, mechblood geysered from wounds. Numbness engulfed him.

The Con killed Sunny! Sense returned as he lunged at his opponent, dodging when it flipped into a truck, sped away only to launch into the air as a massive aerial transport.

“You’re not getting away!” Sideswipe screamed and raced for the largest bot on the field. He spotted Optimus, running towards him with the other commanders at his heels.

“Sideswipe! Report!” A voice ordered and was ignored.

“Throw me!” Sideswipe leaped onto the Prime’s outreached arm, raced to the hand and held tight as he was flung into the air. He streamlined his frame, arms out and blasted the fleeing changer with every ounce of firepower he could squeeze from his frame.

 

“Ya threw him!” Ironhide stared at the Prime in shock. Instead of falling, Sideswipe kept going higher, only to pivot like a flier and head straight for the aerial Con, lasers blasting.

“Go find Sunstreaker. Sideswipe will need someplace to land.” Optimus folded down and raced after Sideswipe, hoping the mech would not end up scattered across the desert.

Elita and Magnus shared a glance then split up. She went to find Sunstreaker, Magnus followed Optimus. Whatever had happened, Elita knew it was bad. The footprints left by the Decepticon triple-changer stood before a gaping hole in the side of Rura Penthe. Mechblood oozed down the outside of the building. The smell of burning energon tainted the air.

“I need air support!” Elita bellowed, immediately one of the remaining Autobot air troops came at a jog march.

“Commander?” The femme asked as she approached.

“Get up there, but be careful,” Elita ordered and glanced at the small dots battling in the sky. She hoped Magnus would be alright.

“Elita-One! I found Ratchet!” The flier stuck her helm out of the gaping hole with a grin. “Get some mechs in the building I’ll set up a beacon for rescue.”

Elita raced for the main entrance of Rura Penthe gathering mechs as she ran. This had to be quick, they couldn’t afford to lose any more of their number to injuries, and this time, nothing would take Ratchet from them.

*|*

Sideswipe knew he was in trouble. The Con had moved too fast, and the ground did not look fun at all. “Well, slag.”

“Sir, my orders are to get you down safely.” A jet matched pace with him.

“Take me to that slagger!” Sideswipe snarled, claws holding tightly to the jet as they streaked across the sky.

“Designation’s Typhoon, what am I to call you, sir?”

“Sideswipe.” He ignored the mech as they got close. The Con was going to die. Sideswipe leaped, arms wide, he landed on the Con.

“Gah! Get off slime!” The Con roared and barrel rolled. Suddenly he transformed mid-air.

Sideswipe struck. He went for a wide seam as the Con transformed. Weapons forgotten, he plunged his fist into the larger mech’s frame, grabbed the first thing softer than armor and _ripped_. Mech blood spurted in the air, the Con screamed. Frozen mid-transformation Sideswipe used the larger mech as a shield as they crashed.

Bits of processors and gouts of pink and grey gore stained the ground. The Con had landed helm first. “Never touch what’s mine.” Sideswipe kicked the carcass and glared at Optimus.

“Sunstreaker is hurt, but he will live. Our medics are tending to him now, as promised.” Optimus intoned.

“Medics?” Sideswipe asked warily, he had seen first hand what medics did. They harvested parts from the Neutrals living in the camps and sold them to rich mechs in the Towers. They hacked off arms and limbs and soldiered new assemblies in place while mechs screamed from their internals hanging out. They hacked their patients open, jerry-rigged spare parts to cover a wound and declared them healed. Sideswipe had seen what medics would do, but out there, in the desert, real maintenance had sounded too good to pass up.

“Come, I will take you to him.” Optimus folded down, letting sideswipe sit once more on his trailer as they headed back to Rura Penthe.

_-:- Prime, why do you demean yourself? -:-_ Ultra Magnus sent via comm.

_-:- This is not demeaning, Ultra Magnus. Sideswipe is a brave warrior, he deserves our respect, and he lacks a transformation cog. -:-_

_-:- That mech cannot transform? -:-_ Magnus pinged an approval to the smaller mech – and got only static.

_-:- He also lacks a radio, transponder, most scanners; he and Sunstreaker have fought valiantly without most onboard tools we can no longer live without. -:-_

Optimus smirked to himself, despite his new frame, he could still read his brother. It hurt, having to be Optimus Prime, and not be able to tell Magnus or Elita who he really was. But, they had to trust him first as Optimus, before he could reveal his past as Orion Pax. He would not put them in a position where his presence could cause swayed loyalties.

*|*

He felt broken. A dozen sets of hands worked before his optics. This was it, his chance at freedom, so close and yet lost. Ratchet had been free, no chains, no bindings, for all of five orns. _Why?_ He should have run away. His pride, it felt shattered, lost to the glim desert, with the mechblood of the dead. He would rust in this prison, dangling from his strings. Arm, legs, not even his optics were his own. The pit-spawned protocols of Rura Penthe held him captive within his own frame.

_…Something bad is going on Jack. We need to get out…_

His last words to Wheeljack had acted triggered something  within this prison facility. A type of prisoner escape protocol – _something_. One astro he had been looking at Jack, worried for his brother and the mechs within Rura Penthe; the next, back in the medbay, this time, he was wired into it, part of it. His helm hurt. The medical drones were his hands. The sensors throughout the bay were his optics. Twelve tireless drones constantly worked with him as their processors. He couldn’t shut down, recharge, defrag or offline; he couldn’t even command the drones to kill him. To their optics, his frame didn’t even exist.

_Darkness_.

Optics tracked to the fallen drone, pinned by the scarred mech lying motionless on top of it. Frames moved, hands reached. The strange mech picked up and placed on an empty table. More hands cleaned the mech, staunched the sluggish leaks.

Horror filled his spark. This mech was no more than a slightly armored protoform! Welds traced along every armor plate, spanned every seam. Seeker-grade fuel lines patched into the mech’s main shoulder artery, feeding seeker-class laser blasters tied in place with shredded muscle cable. Three drones stood around the patient, forcing Ratchet to see every wound, scar and line of agony engraved in shattered armor plating.

Movement drew his gaze, Ratchet focused unwaveringly on his patient as another soldier crawled in through a wall, staring up at something. The flier was undamaged, ignored, but Ratchet felt the first tenuous stirring of hope. Someone could see his frame! The flier ran to the hole, yelled something. Ratchet focused once more on his patients, maybe these soldiers would find their way out of Rura Penthe.

*|*

  ‘Wish I was bigger, I’m feelin’ like a minibot here!’ Jazz grumbled over his bond with Prowl. Walking with Optimus, Magnus, Elita, and Ironhide surrounding them only reinforced his smaller stature.

‘No, you don’t.’ Prowl’s mental voice held a thin trace of a smile. ‘You would not be such a versatile operative were you any larger.’

‘True.’ Jazz smirked slightly, a bit of a bounce coming back in his steps. If he were honest with himself he would be rooting for the Prime to be legit, and take over the slagging position of running this dwindling scrapheap of an army.

They walked in silence, their peds echoing painfully loud in the abandoned corridors of Rura Penthe. Magnus followed Bladedash’s beacon to a different wall, in a different wing of the prison garrison. This was the opposite side of the medical ward.

“Hold up!” Afterburn ran around the last bend, Wheeljack tight on his heels. “I have something of Ratchet’s that might help keep him out of Rura Penthe’s clutches.”

“He’s got Ratchet’s old credentials. This will mark him as a senior Autobot officer in good standing. I think this prison was developed to hold non-military and criminal elements of the Autobot forces. None of the commanders listed in the old archives before the destruction of the satellite system have been taken. Newer mechs and lower ranking soldiers who never made it into the archives have all gone missing. This place does not recognize them from our records, and so confines them. At least, that is my current conjecture at the moment.” Jack spoke quickly as they reached the wall.

“For his sake, I hope you are correct. Ratchet is a good mech, and a missed friend.” Optimus spoke softly, without thinking.

Jazz stared at Optimus, like the rest, stunned that he knew of Ratchet. He met Prowl’s optics and shrugged. They had to get medical attention for the rest of their troops and find what had happened to the many missing personnel. This was their only hope. Questions had to wait for later.

“How do we get in?” Elita asked.

A blaster fired repeatedly into the wall. Sideswipe ran at the wall and landed a flying kick to the damaged section. Plating and wires ripped from the wall. The odd-shaped section falling in with a groan of girders and failing wires.

“Sunny!” Sideswipe barreled into the room.

“Wait!” Magnus reached for the warrior. Optimus’ hand stopped him before he could halt the smaller fighter.

“Let him go, he seeks his brother.”

Magnus looked from Optimus to Sideswipe hovering over the other warrior on the medical table. A sense that Optimus' words held importance made his plating tremble.

“Ratchet!” Wheeljack shouldered past Magnus and Optimus, his optics on _his_ brother.

Jazz took in the many interactions and suddenly had a hunch that Optimus was more than he seemed. “Afterburn, do ya know how to get Ratchet down?”

“Yes, we need someone tall enough to reach his helm and insert this signature chip into his secondary cranial slot. His old credentials will upload, and in theory, as Wheeljack would say, Ratchet should be released.” Afterburn ignored the taller mechs and handed the chip to Elita-One.

Jazz silently agreed with Afterburn’s logic. Magnus and Optimus were silently butting heads, they needed a femme with a level helm on her shoulders to get Ratchet out of this place.

*|*

 

_… recognition sequence activated_

_… launching identification algorithms_

_… credentials accepted_

_Autobot Ratchet; Major, thirteenth battalion forward medical division, recovery squad_

_Releasing prisoner restraints … deactivating slave/master mesh sequence…_

Ratchet opened his optics, grateful to see the white ceiling of the med bay. He let his intakes work for a moment, relishing the myriad nuances his chemoreceptors were picking up. He was back! This was how the world had tasted and smelled before he had been forced to transfer from Afterburn’s squad.

“Afterburn?” Ratchet sat up and blinked at the strange red and blue bot sitting patiently at his berth side.

“I am sorry, old friend, Afterburn is busy with his troops. I volunteered to wait for you here.”

“Or –”

“Optimus. They don’t know yet.” The former Orion Pax replied softly, optics crinkling at the corners with a fake smile that did not cover his hurt.

“Well why the slagging pits not?”

Optimus sighed, then extended his wrist, exposed data transfer cable free for the uptake. Ratchet squinted at the offering then grumbled and plugged the cable into his own transfer port.

It took astroseconds, but felt like orns, until Ratchet could pull the cable back out of his wrist slot. He shook his helm. “I hadn’t realized Sentinel had gotten that bad.”

“I need to earn the others trust now, as Optimus, then I can tell them when – hopefully – they will not be swayed by loyalties.”

“Fine, just – when can I get the slag out of here?”

Optimus pointed over his shoulder. “Can you get him stable enough to move? We have a large number of wounded and no one is willing to come back in here. Too many are still missing.”

“Slaggit, Optimus. This _is_ an Autobot facility. There’s a port over there, plug in and find the master control to shut off the prisoner collection protocols. It needs to be soon. While I was plugged in some gauge was reading almost full, and I have no idea what will happen when it reaches critical.”

Both sets of optics tracked to the wall slot for data transfers. Optimus stood carefully and approached.

Ratchet moved from his berth. On a table beside him sat a blue storage subspace cube. He tapped the shimmering surface and released its contents. He smiled. There, lying in its scarred glory was his tool kit. He picked up the hefty pack, flipped it open and nearly keened at the transmetal augmentation block. The shimmering silver metal held all the coding and mass he needed to transform his hands into any of his onboard tools. He let his hand plating shift aside, revealing the base protoform below. Once exposed the darkly rainbow-hued rods and pistons of his protoform extended miniature crimson cables that locked into the transmetal and pulled the block into his hands. In moments his hands felt heavy for the first time in far too long.

He looked over his shoulder at Optimus, shook his head and went to the stasis-locked warrior. “You won’t look like much for a while, but this should keep you running.”

Ratchet worked on the mech, pulling out overused and severely damaged parts. Fuel pumps had been cannibalized, welded together in bits and pieces. Plating overlaid holes and rents along primary components and major lines. Whoever had done the work had kept this mech alive, but is was a Primus-damned miracle the mech hadn’t exploded from all the extraneous stresses forced on his systems from the mishmash of random parts.

The spark within its casing was strong, steady. “I’m amazed you still have a spark, and that the magnetic shielding is still functional. You should by all rights be terminated by now. Whoever did this to you has been giving you mixed blessings for far too long. Have you _ever_ seen a proper medic? Doubtful. These are the welds of a half-trained butcher. Probably gladiator stock if my guess is right.”

Ratchet continued to talk to his comatose patient. It helped fill the silence, and he’d just remember to threaten Optimus to keep his Prime-ly trap shut about any medical details he might have overheard. It was as good of a plan as any for now.

The work was soothing, being able to do his duties with his own hands. He glanced over his shoulder. The drones were recharging in their bays, for once powered down and silent. It felt good to be a free mech in a room with the living. Optimus’ systems ran loudly in the still room. Intakes hissed, processors spun, even the pulse of his EM field radiating from his massive frame made the room feel less intimidating. Ratchet couldn’t wait to get the slag out of here, though.

As he worked the room seemed to grow smaller, more silent. His plating tensed, his lines froze. Optics bored into him, but Ratchet couldn’t find the source. _Impossible!_ Ratchet reared up, away from his patient, staring at the stasis-bound mech and trembling at that mech’s spark signature approaching from behind. He wheeled on one ped, scalpel held at the ready – his patient stood before him. Chest undamaged, weld scars lined his frame. Ratchet shivered.

“Uh, no visitors allowed?” his patient asked with a tentative grin.

Ratchet looked over his shoulder, his patient still lay in stasis behind him. Then how could – no, this was not his patient. The welds were in different places, but _their spark signatures were identical!_ It was impossible. Line bonds did not affect the spark signatures. Spark twins, one spark splitting at the instant of creation, developed different resonances, but these two were impossibly the same.

“Who are you?” Ratchet demanded, trying desperately to keep the terror from his voice.

“Sideswipe. I want my brother back.” **_Needed_** _- **shoulder** - **friend**._ Glyphs embedded within his words defined his meaning.

“Brother?” Ratchet repeated, feeling dazed. With their spark resonances, the glyphs for 'twin', 'sibling', and 'other half' should have appeared. Something was off, terribly off about these two.

“Yeah, you know, two mechs raised by the same family group?” the warrior asked warily.

“If I scan you will I find this?” Ratchet turned and held up the brutalized fuel pumps.

“Nah, Sunny always had a way of keeping his internals intact. Mine’r worse.”

Ratchet felt his hand impact over his eyes before he had even recognized his own movements. “Dear Primus, how the slag are you alive?”

The soldier shrugged, “So, can I have him back now?”

“No! You cannot have him back. He’s in _pieces_ , and from the looks of it, he’s never seen a real medic before, _and_ if you’re in as bad of shape as I think you are you’d better get your sorry skid plates on the next table immediately.”

“Not happening.” The faint smile fled the warrior’s face. “One of us _always_ protects the other. You can’t have both of us under.”

Ratchet stared, appalled at the utter lack of trust in his standing as a medic. Anger burned through his relays, making his hands tremble and metal squeal in protest as his fury was directed at the ruined fuel pump in his hand.

“If I ever get my hands on whoever did this to the two of you I’ll slag them into spare parts!” Ratchet snarled, then turned and bent back to work on his patient.

“Stand where I can see you. If I tell you to get out, get. If you don’t you’ll be banished from medical unless if you are getting repairs. Do you understand?” Ratchet menaced, the soldier nodded uncertainly and shrugged. Ratchet kept tabs on the other mech as he moved to the other side of his brother’s berth, next to the scarred helm.

“What is that?” the soldier’s voice cut into Ratchet’s concentration.

“I need to replace his fuel lines. Too many repairs have weakened the mesh. I can’t have him bleeding all out, so I’m using clamps to cut off the fuel flow in the area I’m working in.”

“Okay.” A shrug sounded in the mech’s voice.

Ratchet glanced up from his work, suspicious of the other, but not wanting to have another surprise of feeling one spark in two places again. He suppressed a shudder as he worked, one sensor on his patient’s brother, one sensor on the frozen Optimus as he communed with the circuitry of Rura Penthe.

A sinking feeling told Ratchet that this was going to be one slagging long orn.

 

_Shuttles filled the stunning crimson sky. They traveled near an ort cloud, close enough for the radiation to create a false light to the right scanners. It was beautiful. Decepticon warriors returned from their duties across the stars. Autobots policed the cities, and Neutrals filled their lives with beauty and light. This age was one of beauty._

_“Soleus Prime, Ambassador Tarn is waiting.”_

_“Thank you, Downshift. I will attend him shortly.” Optics scanned the beauty of  the sky one last time. The halls of the Palace of Light passed swiftly. Long, fluid strides made her appear to float, glide across the floor as if weightless._

_Tarn, he was a good ambassador, if a bit greedy. Still, he did his job well. Soleus looked in on him, eyeing him carefully. It was always good to know one’s servants well, especially their weaknesses. In this case, Tarn like to be in control. He was so easy to manipulate._

_“Ambassador, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_“Prime, your beauty grows by the vorn. Power does agree with you.” They both laughed, the light laughter of equal mockery. Trivialities made Cybertron run smoothly._

_“And words come so easily to you. What of your new project?”_

_Tarn smiled with a slight bow, “There are rumors of desertion amongst the Decepticon ranks, and criminals within the Autobot police. I have a solution to these problems that will keep their tainted sparks from returning to the Well and furthering such corruption.”_

_A pleased smile tugged at her features, “I’m listening …”_

 

Optimus shook his helm, escaping the memory of a different Prime’s lifetime. This place was not a tomb, nor a prison. It was a storage unit, one for the disembodied sparks of millions who had displeased their leaders. His tanks roiled, his spark twisted painfully in his chest. The schematics uploaded into his processors from the endless depths of the Matrix showed him more than he had wanted to know.

He searched for the command module within Rura Penthe, uploaded the codes Soleus had embedded into the Matrix without knowing. The building shuddered. A high keening emanated from the walls and shook the ground. Optimus felt the agony of millions resonating within the Matrix, down to his spark.

He knew what those interred within this building were being subjected to, knew that this would bring more problems than solutions. Yet, it was the only option left to stop the cruelty left forgotten and ignored for the past two great wars.

“What the slag is going on?” Ratchet’s voice demanded.

“Rura Penthe is releasing its prisoners. We need all available units to help escort those released out of here. We have nine groons until this place self-destructs.” Optimus replied calmly, fear holding him frozen as he was fed the calculations of how many lives he was terminating.

“And how far away do we need to get before this place blows its top?” Ratchet snapped.

Optimus flinched, “We do not have much time.”

“Slaggit Prime!” Ratchet snarled.

_-:- All available hands to Rura Penthe STAT for patient transfer. Repeat, all available hands to Rura Penthe. Get your slagging afts down here! -:-_

Optimus smiled slightly, oh how he had missed Ratchet! He terminated his connection to Rura Penthe, grateful Prowl had been wrong. This was not a city-former, only a programmed factory for spark harvesting. He stopped the train of thought. He knew from the schematics what the inmates were subjected to, but he couldn’t face the reality, not yet. How could he earn the respect and trust of his troops when every Prime before him had been hideously flawed. He thought about how many sparks had been taken in this place, and wondered if he would be remembered any more favorably by a different Prime in the future, or just another failure like all the others?

*|*

Fifteen thousand. Prowl stared at the number of mechs marching like drones in the underground tunnels leading to Iacon. Autobots, Decepticons, Neutrals, mechs with factions symbols nobot recognized. Fliers, ground units, bots designed with strange lines and planes that could describe nothing useful that anybot could fathom. Still, they came, the rescued mechs from Rura Penthe.

Prowl twitched a doorwing, ' _was this a mistake?_ ' Each Decepticon could turn against them. Each Autobot could prove to be a turncoat. Each Neutral and undetermined mech could be their most dangerous opponent for being unpredictable. Out of stasis, out of their times, could these mechs retain their minds? Had they in the limbo Optimus described? And, could they trust Optimus’ words, for that was all they had, in this matter?

Ratchet vouched for Optimus. The commanders vouched for Ratchet. Could they take the recommendations of Ironhide, Elita-One, Ultra Magnus and Afterburn for Ratchet’s trustworthiness, and yet not take Ratchet’s vouchsafe for this Optimus? When had Ratchet known Optimus? Jazz had likely run across Ratchet’s tracks in Tarn. That had been megavorns ago. Could the mech Ratchet had known still be trustworthy after all this time? If they questioned Optimus they had to question Ratchet, who likely offered an even greater threat to them as he held valid command codes, knew how to mend them, and from his combat statistics, how to kill them all as well.

‘Prowler, give it a break, kay? You’re givin’ mah processors an ache.’ Jazz’s voice broke through his brooding. Jazz at the front of the column, leading the most coherent of the troops towards Iacon, and the safe house near there. It was large enough to station Ratchet with the worst of their wounded. For now, they had too many mechs and no way to screen them all for traitors. Most of the recovered frames had complete memory wipes, their systems idled for so long the memory files had deteriorated completely. Or, that’s what Questro believed. Ratchet had told them to give the frames a few orns. Either the memories would return, or they would have to become new mechs.

‘Scary thought, ain’t it?’ Jazz asked, following Prowl’s thoughts still.

It was, the thought was terrifying. How did a mech with no memories learn to live? And in this war? How could any mech survive such a transition? Prowl wasn’t sure he could have continued this fight if he had not seen what he was fighting for. His home, those lost in Praxus; each of those things he fought to keep from losing again. He looked around, ‘But what am I really trying to keep?’

“Will the fight for their freedom be enough to keep these mechs sane?” Optimus’ voice asked from Prowl’s side, making him flinch.

“Freedom?” Prowl looked up, feeling Jazz’s optics look through his own.

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. The freedom to decide their fate, and how to live their lives. Will this be enough to keep most of them online?”

Prowl looked away from Optimus, unable to withstand the larger mech’s gaze. ‘Can he read minds? Is he also a telepath with similar capabilities to Soundwave?’

‘Dunno, mech, just go for the ride. Maybe he’ll give us something to hang him with. You know, a deep dark secret that can be used to keep any Prime from ever ruling again.’

“I do not want to lead the Autobots in your stead. Prowl, you and Jazz are brilliant commanders. Will you give me a chance to work with you? Not as Optimus the Prime, but just as Optimus with an audio to the wisdom of the Ancients?” Optimus’ voice sounded softly, almost muffled to the point Prowl could barely pick up his words, but the glyphs were transmitted clearly.

‘I can’t believe mah audios. Is he a knockoff?’ jazz’s voice echoed in Prowl’s processors. Prowl wondered the same thing.

‘More to the point, how well does he read minds?’

‘Quick, think of a color!’ Jazz urged, half in jest.

‘Green.’ Prowl replied, silently hoping that Optimus would not pick up on this as well.

“Who is leading our unit?” Optimus asked, optics tracking over the column.

“Hound is,” Prowl replied uncomfortably, thinking of the green scout.

“Then we will get to Iacon shortly. He is the Autobots best, or so I’ve been led to believe.”

‘This mech is beginnin’ ta scare the plating off’a me!’ Jazz’s unease was palatable across their bond. Prowl couldn’t agree more.

“Have you seen the two who came with me?” Optimus looked down once more at Prowl.

“The warrior brothers? Yes, Ratchet forced Magnus to carry them along with half of the more seriously wounded. Elita, Ratchet and Ironhide are carrying the rest.”

“Ah, I had wondered. Ratchet would not accept my offer to assist, he believes I should be seen by the troops. I am, however, unconvinced. My presence is not yet accepted, much less welcomed.” Optimus turned from Prowl, folding his massive frame down into a heavy transport vehicle and accelerated, running parallel to the marching column.

‘Jazz, how much did I just tell him?’ Prowl’s lines felt cold. How had he let himself give away so much intel?

‘Mech, Ah think he might be a real Prime. Remember the old stories?’

Prowl remembered the stories and had believed in them for most of his youth. The stories of Primes being all-knowing vessels containing the will of Primus. The stories that Primes could read sparks and processors equally, and know the truth even when a mech could not tell the difference. Was this then the power of a Prime?

‘Prowler, Ah think he might be useful. He pulled the truth out of you without you knowin’. Slag, he even had me listening to him across a bond! Sentinel had never done that, had he?’

‘Not that I am aware of, Jazz.’

Prowl turned as the last few mechs marched past. These were the minibots and the rear scouts. As they passed through, surprises were placed for any Decepticons that might follow, to be triggered by their transponders. Any other mech coming through would pass unscathed. Prowl just hoped this was not yet another mistake.

 

 


	2. Changing Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Autobots regroup. Troops more distant from the machinations of Sentinel still revere the title of Prime, while those closest to him question Optimus, and their need of him. Conflicts brew within the ranks. Old flames, new hurt, and unrealized emotions breed unrest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of my longest chapters to date. 22 pages in Word. Sorry for the long, long ramble and the ... angst. I'm not one for writing female angst, I hope Elita is somewhat believable.  
> Steelhand is Bay-verse Ironhide. I liked his character in the films, but couldn't let go of the G1 version of Ironhide, so both exist.

Prime detail. Those who had gone out under Sentinel’s command and lost him. No one had known how to greet the returning soldiers. Ultra Magnus and Elita-One had been welcomed as heroes, the unit leaders who had fought through enemy and ally alike to reach Sentinel. Jazz and Prowl, most mechs knew of them. They had kept the Autobots together durning Paraxus, and had kept their units safe with the fewest fatalaties ever since. Everybot knew of them, and they were welcomed warmly.

Optimus kept his Prime signature silenced. He walked in with Magnus and Elita, slightly behind, ignored and forgotten. Black scoring along the walls and dried energon stains of the floors told of the coup that had occurred within the base.

Sentinel’s strongest supporters were either in the brig or the morgue. Too much had happened under Sentinel’s watch. Too many good mechs had died under the leadership of the False Prime. The troops welcomed commanders without a Matrix, even as they yearned for a Prime. Autobot coding had been conditioned to serving a Prime for too long for them to ignore it now.

“But what happened to Orion Pax?” Steelhand demanded in the silence. All the commanders had gathered in the meeting room, one long table held them all, and all overlooked Optimus, the new mech in the room. It was as if he had been cloaked, all optics blind to his presence. The shunning was unsettling.

Optimus looked around, he had to end this charade, he needed to let old friends find their closure, and give himself the chance to start over in this new life.

“Orion vanished into Rura Penthe. Many of our number vanished into that place, some were recovered, but not Orion. He will be missed, along with many others. In total almost half our forces off-lines, twenty were lost in Rura Penthe. There will be no recovery missions. The former prison self-destructed.” Magnus spoke softly, lowly. Grief filled the room, pain and unshared agony nearly tangible in the silence.

Optimus looked away, he was an intruder in his own wake. Here, mechs mourned his passing, and Elita only shuttered her optics against the pain. Magnus only bowed his helm. Their pain was the hardest to witness, even though theirs showed the least.

“How are you processing those recovered from Rura Penthe?” Halonix asked, the mech had become the speaker for the base, and representative of the commanders who had been left behind.

“We recovered Ratchet from the prison, he had been acquisitioned as a medic, and hardwired into its facilities. He is recovering from his ordeal and mending the physical damages to those recovered as well as to our troops in the Penthe defenses. Smokescreen and Red Alert are interviewing the coherent mechs. Nova Star and several others of the neutral defenders are transporting the most damaged of those recovered to off-base medical facilities for long term care.” Prowl shared data packets amongst the officers present.

Optimus onlined his optics as he listened to the proceedings. Jazz and Prowl were not the smallest bots present, Skids had been promoted in the aftermath of Rura Penthe, he now stood with Ironhide, one of the few minibots present.

“What of the unknowns, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe?” Hyperdrive asked as others muttered over the damage reports.

“They are still classified as unafiliated combatants. They are skilled; Ratchet believes they came from the Tarn or Kaon gladiator pits due to the types of injuries they had sustained and the rudimentary medical attention their wounds had received. Their scarring was extensive.”

Prowl continued to report on those who had been out in the field. His cold presence did not inspire hope, and Jazz’s fidgiting raised optic ridges. Ironhide and Steelhand guarded the pair, one to each of their current chief commanders. Having the pair share the post only underminded their standings.

“And what of Sentinel? His frame was returned, he will be interred, but no Matrix rested in his chest. We all feel the call of the Matrix, many of our soldiers will not fight without a Matrix Bearer. Regardless of Sentinel being the False Prime, he was still our Prime, and we need one to offer the wisdom of Primus.” Aged Kup asked from the back.

Optimus let Prowl’s optics meet his, and saw the well hidden surprise in their depths. _-:- I swore to prove my worth, without demanding the respect of a Prime. I have only shown my presence to those outside of Rura Penthe. Everyone else knows not of my presence. -:-_

Prowl’s doorwings twitched, Jazz flinched with their movement. Ironhide and Steelhand stiffened simultaneously. All optics tracked from the commanders to the back of the room, looking for the silent threat their commanders had responded to.

“What are ya talkin’ bout, he’s right there.” Ironhide tilted his chin in Optimus’ direction as Steelhand shook his helm sadly.

“Young punks, can’t even use their optics these orns.”

Optimus smiled beneath his battle mask, the guards had such little patience with others. He stood and braced himself, “I am Optimus Prime.”

His words rang, filling the room. His voice was rich with command, and benevlolence. The Matrix resonanted within each word. He stood tall, and only wanted to bolt from the mass of optics boring into him. He stood still, a feat in itself, and locked every joint and cable to keep from the full body twitching that threatened more strongly with each astrosecond they stared at him.

“What the slag?” Irohide swore, Steelhand’s voice spewed a muffled Thetacon curse. Jazz gaped, Prowl’s wings dropped dramatically. Optimus cut off his intakes so he couldn’t laugh at them.

Around the room suspicion faded, replaced with the near-fanatic devotion that had allowed Sentinel to lead them all nearly to their entire faction’s demise. Many rose, some fell out of their seats, all fell to one knee.

“Do not kneel!” Optimus’ voice roared, deafening in the tight space, yet still full of an ageless benevolence. The assembled mechs flinched, some fell on their afts, others shot to their peds. Prowl and Jazz stood with mouths agape, optics bright.

“Do not kneel, to me or any other. Until this war is over, we all are soldiers. We are Autobots. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. We fight for freedom, for ourselves and one another, until all are one.”

 _‘And I sound like an idiot.’_ The thought came and went in Optimus’ processors while the room stared at him in complete silence. Dread started to creep up his lines, and down his struts. He braced, without tensing, for laughter to come.

“Hail Optimus Prime!”

Optimus stared. They couldn’t be – and yet they were, many of the commanders had taken to cheering while Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide and Steelhand glowered at the display.

“Enough!” Optimus broke in. “Sentinel Prime did not deserve the trust his Autobots gave him. For us to survive, a trial was demanded of me. Let those who knew Sentinel best, and suffered his atrocities the worst challenge me. I must prove to all Autobots that I am worthy of their faith, as must all Primes who come after me. We must learn from Sentinel’s actions, so that none will suffer as we have.”

“How can we? The Deceptions will not give us the time to put you to any testing.” Kup demanded.

“Then let Jazz and Prowl, who have shown their stedfast loyalty to all of us, guide me. Let Ironhide train me, and Kup provide me with wisdom and guidance. No Prime can be given blind trust, not any longer.” Optimus replied gravely.

It was his best proposal, one that kept Jazz and Prowl in command where they were needed, and wanted, without stepping on too many peds. Optimus looked around once more, then sat. This was not his show to run.

*|*

 

Autobot Base, ‘Yeah right, what a crock of slag.’ Ratchet looked the medical ward over with distrusting optics and shuddered. He would never feel safe in a medbay again, not for the rest of his orns. This wasn’t even a proper medbay in a proper base! This had once been a remote campus for the Iacon Academy. Ratchet had taught a few classes here before he had moved on to Rodion. So much time had passed, he looked around sadly, but little had chaged.

The Iacon Autobot Academy, once the location where all the civil forces and politicians had been trained, now it served as the main base of operations for the entirety of the Autobot army. Where once there had been college wings and dorms holding up to a thousand mechs each, now there were only barracks. The spire that once served as the deans’ residences now held senior officers and the upper command elements.

So much had been lost. Once, the skyline of Iacon had stretched on beyond the curve of Cybertron and out of sight. Now only rubble marked the edge of the city, and the entry to the glim desert beyond.

Ratchet looked over to a figure beginning to stoop with age behind him, not everything had been lost though, not yet.

“Ratchet, you’ve held up well out there beyond the city.” Maincharger greeted with a faint thread of a smile.

“Thanks, I think. If I held up well, I’d hate to think how I’d be doing if I had broken completely. ‘Hate to say it, but for a long time I thought my only way out was by killing myself.” Ratchet rumbled ruefully. Once he had declared suicied the greatest sign of cowardice. After being trapped for so long, thinking it was the only way to get free, he wasn’t sure anymore.

“And yet, you are still here. I am glad all of your yelling at least got through your own helm. Do you remember, how you used to throttle any soldier who tried to self terminate? You did, and every time, you said the same thing: ‘If you can’t live with yourself, then live for others.’ I’m glad to see you took your own advice, even if it wasn’t always the right thing to say at the time.” Maincharger slapped the back of Ratchet’s elbow and turned to the next patient.

“There are a pair of mechs waithing for you in bay three, they refuse to be treated by any other. I suggest you get to them before someone gets the Prime involved.” Maincharger warned.

“The _Prime_ knows better than to slagging get in my way in my own slagging med bay, and if he’s forgotten I’ll gladly remind him!” Ratchet snarled, and walked to a side room to see what the commotion was. “Ah, slaggit.”

Two sets of optics stared at him from within the room. Sunstreaker was concious, had been for the last few orns, and Sideswipe was looking worn. Served the slagger right. Ratchet had told him to rest, but no ‘I have to watch my brother.’ Slagging glitches.

“There are sixteen medics, thirty assistants, forty trainees and nearly one hundred nurses and you _demand_ to see me. Listen you sorry, slagging pit rejects, we have too many slagging wounded for me to spend every astro worrying over your skidplates. You take what treatment you can get when you can slagging get it.”

“No.” Sunstreaker’s fierce glare almost made Ratchet take a few steps back, almost.

Ratchet took a deep intake to steel his temper against their aggrivation, “And why not?” He asked just on the good side of sweetly.

“Same deal, you repair Sides, I watch. We don’t know the others.”

Ratchet clenched his fists to keep himself from either slapping Sunstreaker or peeling the plating off his own face in frustration. “But you know me?”

The brothers nodded silently.

“But you don’t trust me so one stays online?”

They nodded again.

Ratchet wanted to hit them with a wrench. “Let’s get something slagging straight –”

“You promised.” Sideswipe hissed lowly, optics slitted with malice.

“Promised?” Ratchet cycled his audios. He thought back desperately to what the other warrior was talking about. “ – Oh, slag.”

 _“If I ever get my hands on whoever did this to the two of you I’ll slag them into spare parts!_ _Stand where I can see you. If I tell you to get out, get. If you don’t you’ll be banished from medical unless if you are getting repairs…”_

Slagging Pits! Ratchet took in a deep intake, he had sealed his own slagging lot as these two’s private medic with a fit of pique. _Great, like a rust rash._ “Fine. Now get out of there, this room is for critical patients only and you two do not meet that criteria. Sideswipe, get on the corner bench. Sunstreaker, I told you light duty and rest only. You are not standing while I’m working on Sideswipe. I have a chair against the wall sit there and stay put. If either of you get in my way you’ll be rotating between berth and repair table in separate rooms. Do you hear me?”

“Lead the way, oh angry one.” Sideswipe grinned, his grin widening as every mech in the bay turned to starre at them.

“I said get!” Ratchet yelled, a few snickers sounding around the room and quickly silenced under his withering glare.

*|*

Ironhide leaned back in temporary quarters. For the first time in a long, long time he could finally rest. Optics shuddered, he let his systems idle into a light doze as a dozen other mechs and femmes rested or chatted in their bunks. Somewhere in the room Steelhands was also resting. Jazz, Prowl and Optimus had other guards for the orn. Either Stellhand or Ironhide had vouched for all the guards, and they ahd each double checked the other. The three were good mechs, old hands at guard duty.

His joints ached, his lines throbbed. Between serving with Jazz and Prowl during the last few vorns and guarding and chasing down Sentinel before that, rest had been very low on his list of priorities. Now, he settled deeper into recharge, he could finally recover some of his energy.

A siren blared overhead, duty assignments pinged to his HUD. “No rest for the old.” Ironhide rumbled and stood. He felt more tired than when he had first laid down – ugh, only eight breems, if these damned Decepticons would just let a mech rest his tired struts then they’d see a real fight!

He snagged a booster, condensed energon in a gel, with fuel processing additives to release the energy all the faster. He hated these things. They tasted worse than slag and made his systems run too fast and too hot. Still, he thought as he chewed down the last of the foul gunk, if it meant handing these Cons their skidplates it would be worth it!

Autobots bolted from the base’s main exit, spilling out as a tidal wave of mobile weaponry. Seekers flew overhead, dropping missiles and firing laser rounds to maim and off-line all in their path. Ground troops unloaded heavy artillery and massive volleys of laser, plasma and thermal blasts to melt and shear through Autobot armor.

Comm lines were filled with chatter. Orders given, received, followed, lost, ignored. The Autobot line churned and wheeled. Chaos reigned, and Prowl’s calm commands could not reign in the terror of the new heirarchy. Old units tried to assemble, mechs in the wrong place left gaps for Decepticons to slip through. Where Magnus, Elita, ond other commanders towered over their units, order reigned. The battle fought, Decepticons pushed back and hope flowed. Outside those too small pockets of control

Ironhide shuddered internally as he bolted to his position, and ground to a halt as he hit a pocked of Decepticons. Blasters up, he shot at the closest one, knowing he was facing a loosing battle. Red optics closed in, screams filled the air.

“Decepticons, face me!” Optimus suddenly stood before Ironhide. Masive blade in hand, the benevolence the Prime had always worn like a cloak had been shed for the brutal power he commanded. Optics hard, he moved forward.

 _-:- Stay at my side, Ironhide. Guard my flank. -:-_ Optimus’ voice filled the comm, and Ironhide felt humbled, small, and for the first time since his rash decishion to joing the Autobots so long ago, he felt needed. Spinal array straight, he pulled his larger arm cannons and kept his Prime safe.

New orders filled the comm lines. Prowl’s words in Optimus’ voice. The power, the sense of the Matrix, goaded the Autobots into formation. The line steadied, Decepticons fell back.

Ironhide leaned back in temporary quarters. He sighed greatfully as his systems slowly wound down. He looked across the barracks, spotted Steelhand in recharge, out cold. Hope filed the air, the room hadn’t changed, neither had the mechs who rested or chatted in their bunks.

They hadn’t changed, well some had hew weld lines or score marks, but still it wasn’t them who had changed. No, it was Optimus. The new Prime had saved them, placed himself between the Deceptions and his faltering troops. Optimus was the variable Prowl had not calculated, the ace up their sleeve Jazz had not hid there, and the one mech brave enough to stand between Unicron and his mechs.

Ironhide smiled as he slipped into much needed recharge, Optimus had kept his guard at his flank the whole time. Roundout had stayed by his charge’s side, guarded the Prime, and Optimus had even asked the lad’s _opinion_ on the best way to get to the front while endangering the fewest lives. For the first time in too long, Ironhide had hope.

*|*

‘So?’ Jazz asked Prowl as they rested side by side on the same berth. The room was large enough, and private. Their two guards had agreed to sharing duties as long as they were in the same place. Sparklight and Backspin hadn’t left their sides since Ironhide had grudgingly assigned them so he could take some down time.

‘I don’t know, Jazz.’ Prowl’s voice was distant, processors whirring as predictions and calculations churned in his mind.

Both were unnerved after the fight, neither had admitted it. Optimus had not been included in the battle plans. He had worked well with them the first time, but ever since he had been more of a specter than a Prime. Jazz had thought the last fight was the end. But, yet again, Ooptimus had appeared to save them.

_Be my optics, my processors. Stay as my right and left hands. This army cannot be run by a single mech, and I cannot do this alone._

Optimus’ words still haunted Jazz. Words that had ordered and asked at the same time. A leader who would give them free reign and stand behind them. But, it was Optimus the troops saw. Jazz wasn’t sure if he liked losing the limelight just yet.

‘You no longer have to lead an army, only your unit. This will free you to focus once more on special operations. Since Sentinel terminated our spies have been less productive.’ Prowl’s voice finally broke into Jazz’s agonized uncertanty.

‘Yeah, mech, Ah know.’

‘No, I do not trust Optimus. Yes, we need his presence. Without his presence and that of the Matrix we will lose every Autobot life within the decavorn, and every Cybertron-bound Neutral in half that time. With Optimus, we have a twenty-six point eight three three percent chance of maintaining our position and securing Iacon from Decepticon invasion for another six decavorns.’

Jazz rubbed his face tiredly, ‘Sixty vorns, Ah never thought so little time could sound like an eternity. Primus, Prowl! We can’t just keep ‘staving off’ the Decepticons! We need to stop them, but Ah just don’t know how.’

Prowl’s hand enveloped his, making Jazz look at the other. “I do not have the answers, Jazz. My calculations do not end well. There is not enough data to calculate in his pesence, but yes, we need Optimus Prime.”

Jazz smiled, he loved hearing Prowl’s vice. Feeeling his partner’s words in his processors was good, but the vibrations Prowl laced into his words, those were so much better. “One orn at a time, yeah mech?” His optics met Prowls, and both fell silent. He was content to just lean against Prowl and soak in the other’s presence.

“Yes, Jazz, one orn at a time.”

*|*

Ratchet cycled his vents silently, keeping the signs of stress to his systems from being obvious to the other medics. He silently cursed the many medics who had taken _entire_ teams to different areas of the base.

_“Your reputation preceeds you.”_

Ratchet grumbled his displeasure. There were now six medbays. Supplies had been pilfered, jumbled, and lost. Traditionally traned medics avoided him because he turned soldier. Military trained medics avoided him because he was traditionally trained. Older medics remembered him and didn't want a repeat encounter. Younger medics had been trained with his infamy serving as a guide of _what not to do._

Now, there were just too many wounded. The aides and nurses still in his bay had taken over part of the medical wing tending the walking wounded, and mending what they could. Everyone had been at least looked at, and Ratchet wondered how they were going to be able to juggle the follow ups.

He just wished he knew what was going on in the other bays.

Prime detail, the new term for the mechs formerly led by Prowl and Jazz, had come in half slagged, wounds so terrible that rust had been rampant through internal systems. He had been made defacto head of Prime detail medical, and now ran an all volunteer unit with only two full senior surgeons. The best of the traditionally trained medics, those still bound by their oath to choose no sides, had stayed with Maincharger and the Neutrals, now en route to the Neutral camps and the long term care wards.

With Prime here in Iacon, this was now the front line. Wherever a Prime was, the front line followed. Ratchet had been on the fronts, knew the pain of what went on there and the pain of being forced to choose between aiding a mech in need and giving the commanders functional units. It was not a choice Maincharger had ever been asked to make.

He looked in the corner, Sunstreaker recharged on a chair while Sideswipe rested on a repair table. The pair wore so many scars. Ratchet huffed and glanced around the rest of the medical ward. The worst of the wounded had been taken care of – or placed in the morgue. He worked his intakes around the consuming grief building in his spark. The unfortunate ones in the morge, he would have to work with them soon. His hands trembled at what he knew he would have to do. He would have to be their Unmaker. Their hollow frames dismantled, functioning parts reclaimed, fluids recycled; with no source of fresh parts they were now doomed to forever scavenge from their dead.

“Don’t you ever rest?”

Ratchet flinched and yelped at Sunstreaker’s voice behind him. “Primus, make some noise, will you? Slagging pits. I’m no good to anyone terminated from spark failure!”

A faint smirk lifted Sunstreaker’s lips. Ratchet swalloed, suddenly seeing past the ravaged protoform to how this mech could look with proper armoring, and new nanites. The mech had the potential to be beautiful. ‘Wait a slagging – recharge, Ratchet, you need recharge.’ He told himself as he continued to scowl at Sunstreaker.

“Well?” Sunstreaker asked, his smirk falling into his usual scowl.

“Well, what?” He demanded, staring at the ruined plating and struggling to ignore the uncomfortable realization that for the first time in his life he understood how mechs could be attractive.

A slender optic ridge raised in consternation, “Don’t make me repeat myself, medic.”

Repeat? Oh. Resting, Sunstreaker had been asking about him getting rest. Slag, he must be tired if a half-wrecked gladiator was concerned about him.

“I do not need my own patients telling me when to recharge.” Ratchet snapped, did he sound defensive? Maybe.

“You do, when that patient is my brother.” **Important-life- _fear_**. The glyphs embedded in the word brother were completely different from Sideswipe’s.

In his processors, Ratchet saw the glyphs overlaid in a data packet. The symbols shifted and rotated until they formed a single, new glyph. Realization dawned on him with the force of a warhammer to the face and with it, an unsettled terror filled his spark. 

These two had the same spark resonance, the same EM frequencies. They were identical in every way, but if he overlaid their two definitions of brother: **_Needed_** _- **shoulder** - **friend-important-life-fear**_. Ratchet nearly fell over. These two were spelling out the glyphs for _self_. They saw each other not as a separate mech, but as an extension of themselves. Likely, they had never known any other mech aside from each other. The implications were terrifying. Only one _hypothetical_ scenario had ever bred this complete dependence between two mechs: Force-twins. Ratchet wanted to delete the thought and the undated memory file associated with it.

Force-twins, one spark forced, under the right circumstances, to split in two. Then, both halves held in stasis long enough for each to recover into a functioning unit, and kept close enough that their signatures could not redefine themselves. To the best of his knowledge the hypothetical work had never even been attempted. It was taboo on the highest order. To meddle with a spark, a fragment of the very essence of their God. Who could be insane enough to attempt it?

“Don’t ignore me, _medic_.” Sunstreaker’s optics filled his vission. Ratchet swalled tightly, he hadn’t been that distracted, had he?

“Back off!” Rachet gently pushed the gladiator back, but the other didn’t budge. He looked back up to Sunstreaker’s optics, suddenly feeling small despite his greater mass.

“Recharge. You are not touching my brother like this.” Sunstreaker turned, settled in his chair once more, guarding his resting brother – _the other part of himself._

“Never give a medic orders in the med bay!” Ratchet snarled.

His head swam, his optics fritzed. Once they cleared he looked up from the floor at Sunstreaker standing over him. The sorry slagger wasn’t even stressed! The gladiator knelt down, out of Ratchet’s reach, close enough to kill him. “He’s my brother.”

Ratchet suddenly felt cold, as if Sunstreaker’s silence was speaking more than his words. A grinding noise caught Ratchet’s attention, he scanned Sunstreaker. The other mech flinched. _There_. Ratchet quickly spun on his hip plating, kicked out at Sunstreaker’s feet and launched a dart in the mech’s side as he effortlessly evaded the kick.

“Stupid slagging pitspawn!” Ratchet rumbled, lifting the taller mech easily and placing him on the edge of Sideswipe’s repair table. These two would need entire new frames, theirs were shattered from too many fights and not enough repairs. He scanned them, even their self-repair systems had taken damage.

He grunted then looked at Sunstreaker’s hip assembly, and shook his helm sadly. The stabilizers were fried. _Great._ More work, and no time. Ratchet looked over his ward once more, summoned the three-mech down-shift crew and left for the Unmaker’s ward. At least he wouldn’t be alone.

“How’s it coming?” he asked as he entered, relieved that the others were already here. He felt a shiver thread down his spal struts, like an energy echo that shouldn’t be there.

“This is really disgusting work.” Firestar looked at her ‘project’ unhappily. No medic was free from this duty, it was an unpleasant honor they had to accommodate. Her duty was dismantling damaged components to look for salvagable parts. Her task was truly revolting.

“Get used to it, femme, we don’t have any manufacturers left. Either we find a stash of parts, fabricate our own, or salvage. And, right now, we don’t get to choose.” Fix-it spoke from his side of the room as he worked on damaged, but not entirely destroyed, components than could be made functional.

Ratchet looked the other two over, and sat at another table. He knew the requrisition list they needed for repairs. And now, he needed to find a pair of annoying pitspawn new frames. _Joy_. So much for recharge.

Ratchet stilled himself, placed his hand over the helm of the frame he faced. This had been a Decepticon, one called Bitstream. Now, Ratchet didn’t even want to know what happened to mech’s spark chamber, or what sort of monster put those claw marks into his frame. Ratchet bent to the first of his many subjects, as his duty of taking full frames and disassembling them to their base components.

A sickened smirk crossed his features. Once, long ago, Ratchet had been a creator.

*|*

Full parade ground assembly. The grumbling filled the massive hall. Mechs and femms fidgeted in loose formation as they awaited their commanders to make an appearance. Heavy artillery and specialist units were in the back. Minibots, spec-ops and intelligence units lined the sides of the grounds. In the middle were the massive numbers of their fighting units, but their total number barely filled the wid hall.

When Orion had first joined, the grounds had been filled to bursting. Units had littered the rafters, hung off the walls and had turned the blue ground plating into a rainbow-hued sea of fighters. Now, they numbered only three thousand. Each spark was precious. Every round of ammunition, every grenade, and each trans-metal upgrade; everything had to be counted, hoarded and made to last.

Optimus looked up as the commanders walked into the monitoring room. They looked so confident. Despite his size, Optimus felt small next to them, especially Jazz. The mech was special opps. Jazz was confident, commanding, and when he went on mission, results were always returned.

It was painful, being a Prime intimidated by his own mechs, but despite the Matrix, was he really a Prime?

“Optimus.” Prowl greeted. The mech’s calm demeanor looked unshakable, as if he could see into the future just by his tactical predictions. Optimus was jealous of that silent strength, and ashamed of that jealousy.

“Prowl, Jazz; commanders.” Optimus stood from his seat. It was surreal to be addressing the commanders as their superior, even if it was in name only.

“Last orn ya proved ya could fight.” Jazz stepped forward, optic band holding Optimus’ gaze. “Without ya we would have lost the fight.”

“No Jazz, you would have lost many, but not the fight. You and Prowl make a formidable unit. Alone, we have our strengths, but together we can keep this army strong.” Optimus wondered if that sounded as stupid to their audios as it sounded to his. Speaking, yes, he should definitely avoid speaking.

“That is the answer I had hoped to hear.” Prowl stepped forward, “While you have shown a willingness to work with us, we are not prepared to follow you. However, it has been made _apparent_ that without a Matrix bearer to lead them, many of our faction will desert.”

“Then make me the mouthpiece to spread your commands.” Optimus saw where this was going, and since Prowl always managed to sound intelligent, then Optimus knew he wouldn’t be rambling every time he activated his vocal processors.

“Do you even know what yer signing up for?” Ironhide demanded with a scowl. “We may not trust ya completely yet, but are ya willing to be just a mouthpiece?”

“Ironhide,” Optimus looked to the old guard, the mech he had looked up to from his first day on base, “I will not let the Autobots I have been chosen to serve to dwell in doubt regarding my intentions. Regardless, even if you had accepted me as a Prime, I would still keep Prowl and Jazz at my side. These two know this command, the mechs that serve them, and they haver earned their responisbilites. Mine was shoved into my chest.”

“They’re getting restless out there.” Steelhand gestured to the waiting troops below.

The commanders moved towards the platform surrounding the monitoring room. Optimus tried not to fidgit, and wondered how the others had manuvered him to the front of the group. He stood there, staring at the troops below, sensing the commanders around him and wondered how a simple mech in the frame of a Prime was supposed to inspire confidence in a war, one that was likely already lost.

*|*

Ratchet glanced in an empty recovery room with envy. Half of the medical crew had piled in there for a brief recharge. He wanted to rest, and knew that if he tried it he’d be in system maintenance recharge for a full vorn – if he could actually recharge and not get trapped by fluxes. His hand traced down his optics tiredly, the dreaded blue walls of Rura Penthe’s medbay flashed briefly behind his optics. He just had to get a few more mechs on their peds and into Prime’s army. Then he could rest, ‘If I had enough high grade to drown the fluxes’. _They only need a few more frames to fill the ranks._

The reminder didn’t stave off the strut-deep weariness, or ease the pressure of self maintenance that had been ignored too long. Rura Penthe had never allowed his systems to recharge properly. Defragmentation and systems maintenance had been ignored. He had been fed through a tube, and kept artificially active for so long some systems had completely fried – like his energy regulator sequence. If a patient had com into the bay in this condition, he’d lock the poor slagger up in a private room for uninterrupted recharge until the mech woke up naturally and then force the mech to take a psych-eval followed by a full system scan and base programming diagnostic.

Fluxes built on fragmented protocols, memory files and improperly stored emotional and scanner input. He knew the warning signs. He knew what he was demanding of his frame and the risks. Yet his duties kept putting more important causes than his own maintanence right at his fingertips. And, fear of the fluxes waiting for him in the darkness of recharge kept pushing him to take up those causes.

 _Medics always make the worst patients._ Maincharger’s voice from megavorns ago rang in his memory. It had been during his first check up after he had been transferred into this frame. Ratchet looked to the ceiling, he had been in this frame for so long he had almost forgotten 3:1:0 and the pain of that lifetime.

‘Who am I kidding?’ The pain never eased, the loss and worry over his missing Precious Sparks never faded. Just, time had a way of making him forget what came before, until a reminder slammed into him and suddenly the pain was fresh and raw and -  ‘No, I can’t forget them. I think, it’s called blocking. What else could I call shoving the memories of all those younglings away until I almost couldn’t recall their spark signatures.’ The pain set in then, the old pain that still throbbed in his spark. He knew why he yelled and screamed, why he leaned towards the higher grades of energon when any was available. It let him forget, when the memories couldn’t be silenced, how he had failed his younglings and had had no control over his own life – his own frame.

Rura Penthe had dredged up all those memories. _Being locked in a closet when he hadn’t been creating new frames._ Locked in a medical ward constantly to repair inactive frames. _Forced to hold so many pulsing sparks within his own frame._ Denied the ability to speak with any of the mechs in forced stasis, only able to vaguely sense their dim spark pulses.

Ratchet’s knees hurt, his fingers ached. When had he off-lined his optics? He booted his otics back on. How had he fallen on his knees? He forced his hands to unclench, wincing at the dents in his dermal plating along his hands. His fingers shook, the small gears and pistons in his hands groaned from the stress.

“Ratchet!”

He cycled his optics. “Jack?” Ratchet looked at his spark brother, his mind fuzzy on when he had last seen him.

“Medic!”

“I’m right here.” Ratchet rumbled, trying to get to his pedes only to find dark metal over his arms. His optics traced from the dark hands to the frames of the gladiators in for repairs. “Get back on the repair table. Your struts are too damaged.”

“Like slag, medic.” One spoke, what was his name again? Ratchet couldn’t remember.

“Energy depletion. We need him on a drip. Place him over there.” A voice rang out.

“Get off of me. Your repairs aren’t finished yet!” Ratchet tried to struggle. Different hands pushed him down on a repair table. Suddenly he was looking up at Wheeljack.

“They’re laying back down, over there. See?” Jack pointed to the table the pair shared.

“Good, their assemblies need to be finished. Then they can go-”

“Is he out?” Firestar asked from her spot near Ratchet’s helm.

“Yeah, he’s finally resting.” Jack pressed his forehelm against Ratchet’s. “Don’t do this to me, buddy. I need you to be here, not lost again.”

“Don’t worry about Ratchet. We’ll take care of him. Optimus warned us he would try to overwork himself, we’ve been monitoring him the entire time.” Smokescreen stepped forward. He had been watching Ratchet since Prowl and Jazz had finally returned to base. The mech’s psyche was strong, but battered. What the mechs from Rura Penthe described was nothing less than harrowing, and Ratchet’s full ordeal was still unknown.

“Think you can fix him?” Wheeljack looked to Smokescreen with worried optics.

“Wheeljack, I’m a psychiatrist, not a medic. How Ratchet behaves after he has rested depends entirely upon his own inner strength.” Smokescreen looked down on Ratchet. This unknown mech still had the same spark signature as 3:1:0. _Creator._ When Prowl had told him that working with Ratchet was going to be difficult, Smokescreen had imagined it to be terrible. This was far worse than his darkest fluxes. How was he supposed to treat a mech he didn’t know and keep a secret that the mech he was treating had created him, and all the other Precious Sparks so long ago.

*|*

“I’m taking over for Irohide the next few orns, Elita. The old bot needs some down time, are you – will you need anything while I’m reassigned?” Chromia looked in on Elita. The femme comander had gone mostly silent since Orion vanished in Rura Penthe.

“No, ‘Mia, I’m – I can manage with Firestar and Roulette.” The femme commander smiled bravely at her second, but Chromia knew Elita’s spark was shattering with each orn that passed.

They had stopped saying ‘fine’ and ‘okay’. They both knew Elita was nither. Part of Elita knew that Orion was still online somewhere. She had told Chromia many times that she still felt him. Cromia silently left as Elita turned once more to the reports she had to read through.

She felt guilty, leaving her commander, but truthfully, this was a break for herself as well. Chromia was starting to imagine using Elita for target practice to keep the slagging femme from wallowing any longer. If she didn’t get some distance she just might ‘forget’ what side Elita was on.

“Is this really necessary?” Prowl asked evenly from the end of the hall. Chromia smiled at the well-hidden irritation threading his voice.

“It is and yer gonna be nice ta my replacement!” Ironhide rumbled threateningly as Chromia came up beside him.

“Ease off, old bot. If Prowl doesn’t listen to me I’ll just use my winning personality on him.” Chromia winked and pulled her laser rifle.

“That will not be necessary, Chromia,” Prowl replied with a slight scowl. Ironhide chuckled and left them alone.

“Ready?” Chromia asked.

“Come on, the others are waiting.” Prowl led the way. Neither speaking as they threaded through corridors and halls to their meeting. None of the mechs they passed questioned the newly appointed Autobot co-second commander traveling unescorted with the femme contingent second-in-command.

They finally reached their meeting spot. Chromia raised her hand to knock when the door slid open with a soft puff of air.

“How does he do that?” She scowed at Jazz as she entered. The other mech only grinned winningly at her, rubbing in his secret.

“We’re all here.” Chromia looked around, a smile threatening to break her faceplates.

“Not all of us.” Prowl reminded her. “Hunt, Shifter and Boom are believed to have taken to the shadows.”

Double speak then, Chromia nodded her understanding, as did the others. The shadows followed Megatron. “So, what do we know?”

“We don’t know much. Something had a twitch in the desert near Tarn. Whatever it left behind bounced into Praxus before the fall, and managed to slip onto the nearest base before the shadows fell. Through the steam we were able to target the top tier ranks before they could twitch at how close we were coming.” Jazz recited how they had all come together. He made it sound so simple. Nothing was ever simple in their group.

_“We don’t know much. Someone had Red Alert in the desert near Tarn. Red was in rough shapt, and Jazz moved him into Praxus before the fall of that city, and managed to get him to Smokescreen on the nearest base before the Decepticons arrived. Through Inferno we were able to use Chromia to reach the top tier ranks before they could Red Alert had finished recovering, and get him situated in his current department.”_

Chromia translated the words in her mind, and looked around, these were her siblings, the majority of the lost Precious Sparks. And, now they even had their creator, 3:1:0, with them as well. “How is the road to oblivion?” She asked, she meant Ratchet, but what else was she to call him, especially given his first designation.

“It’s in rough shape.” Smokescreen, once known as Slip, sat forward. A data file was shared between them, detailing Ratchet’s physical condition.

“How soon can it be made serviceable?” Prowl asked, and Chromia flinched at the wording.

“Primus, that is cold.” She glared at the mech she had to call commander now. This whole dynamic of theirs was seemed to make her processors ache as least once an orn.

“Cold trails are the Stalker’s specialty.” Jazz replied with a threat in his voice.

Prowl excelled at sniffing out information when there was not hope of finding any. He had found ways to contact each of them, guided them in making their advancements. At first it had been from his enforcer position in Praxus. Later, from the Autobot training camps. They all owed Prowl their current placements, if not for him then none of them would have willingly reached out to the others. Fear of being discovered had still been strong back then, when any mechs found with errant processors or coding were obliterated out of fear of Megatron’s Robo-Smasher, and its ability to reprogram mechs.

“Sorry, sorry. But this is _him_ , we’re talking about. We have been searching for our entire lives to find him. And now, now we can’t even tell him our designations.” That was the worst part for Chromia, having 3:1:0 so close, and not being able to let him know he wasn’t alone.

“Target, Stalk, _Bounce_ , throttle down. The road to nowhere has a reputation for being nigh indestructible. Afterburn and the commanders all know him. Primus, somehow even Optimus knows him. So we just need to give him time to rest.” Smokescreen looked their little group over.

Chromia followed the path of his optics. Red Alert _Twitch_ sat nearly in Inferno’s _Steam’s_ lap. Their, now security sub-commander, still had glitches after his abduction and torture at the hands of the ‘Cons. Inferno had kept tabs on him while the smaller mech had been under Maincharger’s care in Iacon. Prowl _Stalk_ looked worn down, sitting beside Inferno’s larger bulk. Jazz _Bounce_ somehow mananged to seem energetic despite dealing with leading their troops, losing Sentinel and breaking in a new, entirely different, Prime. The two commanders had managed miracles these past megavorns, Chromia just hoped Optimus wouldn’t ruin everything they had worked so hard for.

“Target,” Smokescreen _Slip_ interrupted Chromia’s thoughts, “How long are you assigned to Stalk?”

“The next six orns, or until the old mech gets bored,” Chromia replied with a smile for the mech who had found, rescued, raised and loved her. Her mech, Ironhide, she couldn’t imagine losing him, not like Elita had lost Orion. The thought terrified her.

“Guess he gave you the on-shift so he could blow your circuits during off-shift,” Inferno smirked knowingly at Chromia.

“Shut it, Steamy.” She snarled, but no one could find any malice in her words. Yes, she loved Ironhide, yes they blew each other's circuits with alarming regularity, and no it was none of her ‘brothers’ business.

“But, the real question is how are you two juggling things, Stalk, Bounce.” Smokescreen looked to them with knowing optics that made Chromia’s jaw drop.

“You two – like Steam and Twitch?” She stammered.

“Hey, leave us out of this one!” Red Alert waved her off. “Steam’s mine. I don’t share!”

Inferno buried his face in his hand while Prowl looked mortified and the others cackled. Red Alert still had room for improvement, but he was back to whatever passed for normal for him.

“How did you -?” Jazz cut himself off and Prowl’s door-wings rose to ridiculous heights.

“So, are you two swapping cables now?” Chromia asked. If they wanted to pry into her relationship with Ironhide, then she had full freedom to bug the slag out of them in return.

“Can we _please_ get back on topic!” Prowl cried, finally making the room fall into giggles.

“Not yet,” Smokescreen leaned forward, “Why don’t I hear you two talking together anymore?”

“Slaggit Smokey!” Jazz huffed and leaned back, hand over face. “I don’t know how ta say this.”

“Bi-directional dual link field bond.” Prowl stated succinctly.

“Traitor.” Jazz smirked at Prowl.

“A what?” Red Alert leaned forward in unison with Smokescreen.

Prowl forwarded them data packet with Ratchet’s explanation. “We are not ‘swapping cables’ as you say. This is too new, and our shared rank along with _everything_ does not support much room for expanding upon the possibility of a relationship.”

Chromia smirked, “Prowl-speak for back off. Got it, good luck, though.” She winked at them. Jazz smirked, dimming his optic band in a wink while Prowl’s door-wings finally relaxed minutely. It was a start.

“As to why we’re all here, it's about _him._ ” Smokescreen turned their conversation abruptly, but no one worried, he always interrupted his patients that way.

“No one can tell him who we were, or that we’re alive, right?” Inferno asked.

“Partially.” Smokescreen nodded. “There is an old Autobot initiative, prohibiting family units from compromising command structure. We are a family unit, unofficially, and we have to remain off the records. Should our relationship be discovered, then every mech with an optic to unseat Prowl, Jazz, our new Prime, or all the above, will have just cause for calling their leadership into question.”

Smokecreeen fidgited slightly, “There is also a push to get Ratchet on his peds quickly. Maincharger recommended Ratchet to the CMO position. Optimus has questioned how soon Ratchet would be available to ‘take on more duties.’ If the road to nowhere is doubted, then this command will have Flametower as CMO.”

Everyone fell silent. Flametower was still in the brig after terminating a patient while over energized. Too much energon, the stupid suicidal medic had been siphoning from the medbay and shorting patients their rations. The green optics had taken him while working on a paitent, that patient terminated from a routine procedure and Flametower’s defense was that since he didn’t remember any of it, he couldn’t possibly be guilty. The ordeal had been shoved collectively in Red Alert’s and Smokescreen’s faces while everyone had been focused on safely returning the troops en route from Rura Penthe.

“So, this charade continues.” Chromia sighed. She was tired of hiding behind their youngling designations. Tired of pretending to only know the others professionally and not remember them all toddling in the darkness of their first home looking for a missing creator in a city of ruins.

“Yes, it continues,” Smokescreen replied somberly.

None of them wanted to play this game anymore – well Jazz seemed to enjoy it. Jazz liked these types of games, that's what made him spec-opps.

“So, _great leaders_ , how do we proceed?” Chromia asked. It was time to figure out how to save the Autobots, and hopefully Cybertron as well.

“We start by repairing the road to nowhere. Then we train the new titan. If this one isn’t as broken as the last, we might have a chance at keeping all the gamepieces from getting lost.” Prowl replied. As he spoke he projected tentative plans onto the table in the middle of their group. Chromia moved her energon cube out of Megatron’s marker, momentarly pantomiming squeezing the life out of the slagmaker.

“Any questions?” Prowl asked as he ended his projections.

“How much of a chance do we have?” Inferno asked.

“Assuming the other three are with the shadows willingly, and following the slagmaker, we have a thirty percent chance of success. If they are still with us, despite their faction, then that chance might be as much as fifty percent.”

“Do we have a chance of winning, making peace and having a future where the only fighting we have is who gets to the dispenser first?” Chromia asked, her spark already telling her the answer.

“None.” Prowl replied. It was no less than any of them had expected.

*|*

_…maintinance sequece complete_

_…module updates installed_

_…rebooting…_

Ratchet slowly scrolled through his maintenance report on his internal display. His chronometer still hadn’t calculated how much time he had been inside Rura Penthe. The short perieod between being held prisoner in the flying crazy ward and getting locked away in Rura Penthe had been too short a time to take in all that had happened.

So much _had_ happened. He had sensed some of his Precious Sparks in the desert, but he had been having his last decent recharge at the time and couldn't remember accurately. So much lost. A spark signature nearby pulled him from the edge of slipping back into recharge.

“What do you want, Optimus?”

“Ratchet, why did it take a collapse to make you take care of yourself?”

“Collapse?” Ratchet paused, then remembered.

“Well?”

“Call it a misfiled memory packet. It triggered a panic attack I wasn’t ready to deal with.”

“That was not my question.” Optimus accused.

Ratchet onlined one optic to glare at the taller mech. “We’ve discussed this before. My subroutines are out of synch. I can’t recharge while my systems are keyed up, and I can’t cycle down due to too slagging long as Rura Penthe’s pet medic on a leash!”

“Yes, we did discuss this, on the road here. Those conversations included you getting a full checkup and maintenance once we returned to base.”

“And that included the caveat that I would, _once we had more mechs out of medical!_ ”

“Ratchet,” Optimus’s voice sounded, filled with disappointment.

Ratchet scowled. How the _slag_ did that mech pour that much _guilt_ into one friggin’ word?

“You will get a full checkup from one of the other medics. You will speak to Smokescreen, take two orns off – don’t interrupt – and you will speak with Wheeljack, find Huffer and quit wallowing in guilt over old words.”

“Optimus Prime, you will not use my confidences in you to guilt me into –”

“Taking care of yourself? Old friend, I will use any means necessary to ensure you take care of yourself. Especially as you refuse to let others do such for you.”

Ratchet ground his intakes in frustration, amused at Optimus’ wince despite the discomfort it caused. “Fine, but don’t come whining to me when those two get antsy waiting for maintenance I can’t give them!”

“Those two,” Optimus jutted his thumb over his shoulder towards the shut door to the private room Ratchet was in, “are waiting outside. They were adamant that you would repair them, and that you would not touch either of them until you were cleared for duty. Sunstreaker has a _complex_ regarding the condition of his plating. Believe me, you don’t want to scratch his finish.”

“What finish? He’s thirty percent rust!”

“My point. What he has left, he is very protective of.” Optimus stood. “They will ensure you get to Smokescreen, by any means in their capable hands. Be good to them Ratchet, they saved my life more than once.”

Ratchet watched Optimus leave and stared as the two protoform gladiators nodded at Optimus before entering his recovery room. “What are you two doing?”

“Protecting our investment,” Sideswipe grinned.

Sunstreaker looked on Ratchet disdainfully, “You’re not touching us until your hands no longer shake. I will not have crooked weld lines.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He stared in horror at his hands. They were shaking. “I’ll go talk to Smokescreen.”

A knock sounded on Ratchet’s door, he looked up as it swished open. He scowled at Optimus standing beyond, behind Smokescreen. “Optimus, if I find out you had anything to do with this, you will spend the next vorn welded to the ceiling.”

“Uh, I found Optimus. I’m Smokescreen, I don’t think we’ve met.” The smaller bot looked over his shoulder at Optimus uncertainly.

“It’s alright Smokescreen. He’s mellow from exhaustion right now. He won’t dismantle you yet.” Optimus winked at Ratchet and vanished before Smokescreen could look back.

“Prime or not, I’m reconfiguring him into a light pole when I get my hands on him!” Ratchet rumbled his dire promise as Smokescreen entered. The poor youngling flinched with the door cycled shut with a puff of air.

“Um, is this not a good time?” Smokescreen looked from Ratchet to the shut door, then over to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

“I don’t need you two hovering, get out. Rest. Don’t do anything stupid, and no fighting!” Ratchet yelled at the gladiators. He felt better once they were gone. The pair unsettled him, their shared spark frequencies, how they moved. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were uncanny, they seemed to be too close, as if they were one mech in two places.

“Optimus Prime speaks highly of you.” Smokescreen began, and sat in a chair nearby, “This begs the question, how do you know a Prime no one has ever met before?”

Ratchet stared at Smokescreen. “A Prime isn’t created, he’s made. Each Prime recieves upgrades from the Ancients to become the Prime they have been chosen him to become. I did not know Optimus Prime, but the mech he used to be. And that, is a question for Optimus.”

“Wait, but then Sentinel Prime?”

“Held a different designation in his youth. I did not know him then.”

Ratchet had to smirk, Smokescreen looked like he had just swalowed flat energon. That sticky goo didn’t bear thinking about, and a mech only made that mistake once.

“So, Optimus Prime was someone else. And, you knew that mech before he was chosen. With your time held in various medical wards, when could you have known him?”

“Youngling, I’m a lot older than I look. I served under a newly assigned commander by the name of Afterburn when he was leading his first deploy. Ask Field General Afterburn how long he’s been fighting, and you’ll get the idea.”

Smokescreen looked at Ratchet long and hard, “I have spoken to Afterbun many times. He has beaten himself up for megavorns, ever since you were reassigned. He never questioned your orders, and he blames himself for loosing you for so long.”

“So is this where I’m supposed to bare my spark and tell you it was all Afterburn’s fault?” Ratchet asked with an arched optic ridge.

“Is that how you feel?”

“Primus! He didn't make the slagging orders! We were soldiers. We followed orders. They sucked, they were wrong, but grunts don’t question their CO’s. Youngling, I feel tired. My tanks feel empty. I feel my relays tingling thinking of those two gladiators left unsupervised in _my medbay_. I can’t blame anybot for the knock-off reject _slag_ my life has been. The only one I blame is cold and grey on an Unmaker’s table waiting for me to reclaim his parts. Will I have fluxes every time I try to rechage? Yes, for the forseeable future. Is my recharge cycle completely fragged up? Yes, severly. I can’t fix this. It has to regulate itself over time, which we don’t have.”

Smokescreen smiled, “Now that you have your defensive mecanisms activated, may we speak freely?”

“Primus, this is going to be a long orn, isn’t it?” Ratchet ground his intakes and let Smokescreen begin his questions.

*|*

Voices filled the hangar, shuttles swooped low enough for troops to drop from their holds before turning around once more to face the gantlet run between Iacon – now Forward Base – and the remaining pockets of Autobot resistance across the planet.

Shockwave and Megatron had become too powerful. Cyclonus and the massive armada of Seekers Megatron held in thrall outnumbered, out-powered and outright terrified the Autobot forces. This would be their last stand. This was to be the final battle for Cybertron.

Opimus stood before the collected troops, all stared with optics full of jaded hope. They wanted to believe in a Prime again, but too much had been lost under Sentinel. These troops had been stationed near Sentinel’s command. They had felt enough of his influence, and suffered his misdirections.

“Welcome to Forward Base. This is now the front line – the only line – against Decepticon victory. I am Optimus Prime, your quarter assignments will be forwarded to you momentarily. Check in with the medical crew before squaring your gear. Everyone has to be checked, along with all items brought onto this base, for microdrones and listening agents. This applies to all mechs, femmes, ranks and includes non-Autobot, non-combatant support personnel. There are zero exceptions. Roll out!”

The batch of troops jog marched down a hall. The next round of suttlels screamed in and made their deliveries before turning around once more. Two landed for fuel and crew swapouts. The shuttles skipped off again the instant the fuel cap was replaced. Seventy-six astroseconds from touchdown to liftoff. The aerial support crews had their duties down to a fine art. Optimus looked to the next batch of troops, these were more of the heavies out of the Rust Sea theater. Out there, Sentinel had largely ignored the fighting. The new mechs looked on him with bright optics filled with a near religious ferver at seeing the Prime.

The outlying troops had proven mostly ignorant of Sentinel’s actions. Prime was a myth many heard of but few had seen. The troops closest to Iacon had suffered Sentinel’s actions the worst, and had no love for Optimus. There was going to be fighting in the base, a lot of it, and Ratchet was not going to be happy.

A tiny sliver of joy burst in Optimus’ spark: Soon, he would hear Ratchet yelling again. Soon, mayhem and betting pools would rise over each round of checkup, and who would piss off the medic first. Soon, there might be laughter, and he coould be just Optimus. Maybe then he could finally tell Elita and Magnus his former identity.

*|*

“He’s _what_!” Elita and Magnus yelped.

Smokescreen laughed at their faces. It was fun to see the great and mighty Elita-One and Ultra Magnus rduced to looking like younglings. “Hey, I checked the timeline. Optimus knows Ratchet, but Ratchet has been isolated for megavorns. So, Ratchet knew Optimus _before_ all the scary medbay prison stuff. Which begs the question, where was Ratchet before he was captured? Obviously, with Afterburn in the medical response unit. However, all bots have been accounted for. Either they were offlined, transferred – and received – or they’re still with Afterburn. The lucky slagger is one of the few commanders who can claim that – aside from Ratchet, of course. Which brings us to?”

“Dead End.” Elita answered, her entire being looked defeated.

“Primus, I said we couldn’t trust him! He’s my _brother._ ” Magnus fell to his knees. Face in hands, The great helm pressed into the floor as his shoulders shuddered.

“I am sorry, commanders. As the base psychologist I knew this was dangerous information, but someone has to be able to see Optimus as someone other than a Prime. Sentinel was always Sentinel Prime. Optimus cannot afford the isolation of being Prime, or be granted that level of elitist freedom.” Smokescreen watched the pair with intense optics. Every reactions, flux in their EM fields and word taken in, analyzed and judged.

“We – why didn’t he just say something?” Elita keened as she buried her face in her hands. Grief radiated from every line and seam in her plating.

“He is making an admarable stop light for the new troops. Perhaps you can rescue him from the monotony?” Smokescreen suggested with a smile calculated to the smallest curve to be just conserned enough to be believable.

“We will. Thank you, Smokescreen.” Magnus stood carefully and walked out behind Elita.

 _-:- Somber and Pretty are en route, bounce back. -:-_ Smokescreen sent his message in a tight data burst before leaving the room. It was time to check on Ratchet, and his infamous _Project_.

*|*

Rain. Optimus stared through the grey drizzle to the carnage just beyond the base. A few straggiling Autobots had been out there, all jog marching in to base. To safety. He was grateful the smouldering remains had finally stopped twitching. In his processors he could still hear their screams. He had never seen a mech melted alive before. He shuddered, they had lost fifty this orn, to rain. He swallowed the keen rising in his chest. Once again he had to remind himself that he was Optimus Prime, the ‘Great, Almighty Leader’ of the Autobots.

A Prime could not afford to show his pain.

“Close the blast doors. Send out orders for all troops and shuttles to find shelter and stand down.” He worked his intakes around the grief that made speaking difficult. Around him mechs and femmes rushed to obey his commands. In the corners some retched, others held their helms and keened.

“Sir, those were Lancerunner’s troops.” Jazz spoke softly at his side, as if just as shocked by the greusome ending their soldiers had suffered as he was.

“Thank you, I will speak with her. Their losses, I should have stopped them sooner.” Optimus didn’t notice the painful squeal of metal on metal as his fists clenched tightly. He turned away in silence.

“We need to talk.” Elita’s voice shattered stillness.

Optimus looked up, the two commanders looked very upset. He hid the sinking in his spark. Elita looked at him with the optics of a stranger. He missed her so much, his spark threatened to rupture in agony every time they were close.

“Please, this way.” He led them to a small office. Magnus and Elita followed, ominously silent. Optimus’ spinal array crawled with insecurity. Maybe being close was overrated.

With the door shut, the noise of the ground crews servicing the shuttles was muted. Their office fell painfully silent. Fear kept Optimus facing the door, he could not make himself turn around, not to face these two, not anymore.

“Orion?” Elita asked softly.

Optimus didn’t remember moving. Couldn’t remember taking those steps, but Elita was in his arms. Her spark pulsed next to his, and for the first time since her reformatting, Elita fit in his arms, under his chin, and she _belonged_ there.

“Thank you.” He couldn’t tell who had spoken, at first, the haggard, desperate voice. Only Magnus hadn’t spoken. “I thought I had lost both of you.”

“Why keep this a secret?” Elita pushed away, fury contorting her features.

“We found you, each of us as soon as we realized we had been reformatted. Why hide?” Magnus demanded.

“May I?” Optimus held out his hand, wrist data slots opened.

Elita and Magnus shared a glance, then produced their transfer links. Optimus jacked them in.

_: Stand strong, Optimus Prime, for when your time comes to take the reins, you will be alone no matter how close you let others come.:_

_…_

_Cybertron, wealthy and vast, it is the heart of our empire._

_…_

_“The Primes are rife with the flaws of normal mechs …they suffer the same fears and prejudices… magnified by the Matrix.”_

_…_

_With a swift sweep and a few misdirections, the feeble minded masses believe we ensured Tarkin had been cleared._

_…_

_“They made a Rust Bomb.”_

_…_

_“They_ _are who I fight for, not me, not you. I will fight for a future without war. A future for my friends, for their creations; if not for others, then what is there to fight for?”_

_…_

_The Ancients had twisted time, aged him. He had battled Megatron, the Senate, evil Autobots, ethical Decepticons and alien species he had never heard of as he had relived the pasts of all the known and unknown Primes._

_…_

_“We can’t trust him!”_

_“We have to! Can’t you feel it in your spark? This is a Prime.”_

_“Are we supposed to blindly follow outdated programming?”_

_…_

_“It’s Optimus, now. They don’t know yet.”_

_“Well why the slagging pits not?”_

_“I need to earn the others’ trust now, as Optimus, then I can tell them … without swayed loyalties.”_

_…_

_“Soleus Prime, Ambassador Tarn is waiting.”_

_“Thank you, Downshift. I will attend him shortly.”_

_…_

_Ratchet … believes I should be seen by the troops. I am, however, unconvinced. My presence is not yet … welcomed.”_

_…_

_“Orion vanished into Rura Penthe…He will be missed.”_

_…_

_“We all feel the call of the Matrix, many of our soldiers will not fight without a Matrix Bearer.”_

_…_

_“Optimus Prime, you will not use my confidences in you to guilt me into –”_

_“Taking care of yourself?”_

Magnus and Elita reeled as they pulled out of the memory share. Optimus had minimized what he had shown them, he didn’t want to terrify them. He waited, letting his brother and (former?) lover work through the disorientation.

Magnus looked at him first, “Swayed loyalties? You always did think with your spark.” A small, sad smirk lifted his somber features.

“True.” Optimus agreed, his intakes hurt with how tight they remained. Now that they knew, would this be good-bye? Family units had fallen apart for lesser slights.

“I had to hear this from Smokescreen, to be able to get the truth from you.” Elita’s voice was barely a whisper, but the angry hurt vibrated in the walls.

“We memorialized you, and you were right there. You could have said _something._ ” She broke off, frame trembling.

Optimus kept silent, he didn’t know how to fix this.

“Use your words, little brother.” Magnus nudged him. Optimus choked back a keening laugh of misery.

“Every time I wanted to speak with you, someone else was there. I am a Prime. What I want, has to come last. Sentinel, his betrayal ran deeper than you know. I have to prove to Prowl, Jazz, everyone, that I am worthy of bearing the Matrix. Prowl has already demanded that if I fail, I abdicate the Matrix. As far as I know, that can only happen if I terminate. If I can’t prove my worth, I will join the ranks of the greys. I want to be Orion. I want to be a minor Lieutenant, and be there for both of you. And, I don’t know what to do.”

“Then figure it out!” Elita shok her helm and walked out of the office. Her leaving now, hurt more than his silence ever had before.

“You couldn’t even say you missed her?”

“This is why I didn’t say anything. It would have been kinder to bother of you.” Optimus said sadly.

His helm spun. His optics fritzed. Magnus stood over him shaking his hand. “Your processors somehow managed to get thicker. _Kinder to us?_ Kinder would have been to use your Prime-status to get us alone, and tell us that we didn’t lose the only mech we’ve done _everything_ to protect.”

Optimus watched from the floor as Magnus walked out.

_…you will be alone no matter how close you let others come._

“Sir, how did your mask get dented?” Optimus looked over at Springer, one of the former Decepticons pulled from Rura Penthe. The mech had been incarerated for dissertion in another age, and somehow still wished to become an Autobot. The purple haze had already been removed, replaced with red badging.

Optimus forced himself not to lean against the door he had just exited through, “Even a Prime is not infalable, some mistakes made with good intentions cannot be forgiven.” Optimus turned from the young mech serving as part of the ground crew and walked away.

 *|*

“You knew!” Elita stormed into medbay, her anger vibrating the air.

Ratchet turned from the bot he had on his table, optics slitted in fury. “Elita, take a seat.” He pointed towards the small alcove he used as an office while he continued to work on his patient.

On the repair table Cliffjumper looked between Ratchet and Elita-One nervously.

“No, tell me, why did you lie to us, you traitor!”

Ratchet stilled, his optics turned to ice. Cliffjumper braced himself. Ratchet turned, very slowly, to face the femme commander. Shoulders stiff, optics glowing with fridgid fury, fingers wrapped around a wrench tight enough metal shrieked in torment. “ _Traitor_?”

Cliffjumper dove under the repair table. Every mech in the room edged towards the doors. Most fleeing in the momentary silence as Ratchet and Elita stared each other down.

“One, you never came to me, _femmling_. You knew I was in Rura Penthe, and yet you never asked if I had seen him. Two, and don’t you _dare_ slagging dare interrupt me, he told me he had to earn your trust again so he didn’t compromise the trust our troops had in _you_. I agreed with him. Think about this: If our local troops thought you sided with the Prime because of a relationship _no one knew about_ , you would have been branded as a ladder-climber. They would have lost all faith and respect for one of their commanders willing to swap cables with their new Prime for his favor.”

“They _trust_ him. Ratchet, he was given the Matrix and everybot loves him. There is nothing to prove!” Elita trembled in fury.

“Really? Then why is everyone asking each other if he’s to be the next False Prime? And Elita, are you mad he didn’t tell you, or are you jealous that you had to work your aft and plating off just to get where you are now?”

Elita froze. Anger seethed from her optics, then faded as if her spark had just guttered in agony. “Ratchet, I don’t even know if its really him!”

“Slaggit femme, you have a spark resonance recognition sequence, _use it!_ And, do not make me into a spark mender! I don’t have the answers. But, slaggit, do you still love him? Or did you only love _outranking him_?” Ratchet asked, felling the need for an acid bath talking to this commander about the touchy feeling spark stuff.

“I loved Orion, but I don’t knw Optimus.”

 _Clang_!

Elita fell on her aft, optics wide as she stared at the wrench on the floor.

“Primus take you Ariel! Orion was willing to step aside so you could be with Dion. Orion took up the gun and followed you into battle. He _chose_ Elita-One, even though he didn’t know her. Are you going to tell me that a Matrix and some extra plating are going to scare you off from a mech who has loved you since he _first saw you_?”

Elita shook her helm. “I don’t know, Ratchet. After I –”

“After you got upgraded, thrown in to a new frame and told to join boot? Yes, then when you had no troops following you and you weren’t picking up the pieces of your predicessors betrayal. Sentinel tarnished the faith of all in the _Matrix,_ and in the title of Prime. Optimus can’t go into bootcamp, or learn to be a soldier in this new frame. He has to be a leader greater than Sentinel, he can’t stumble in front of the troops. He can’t make mistakes in public, he can’t even cycle his intakes without all opitcs on him, waiting for him to fail.”

Ratchet stormed to where Elita still sat, and crouched down to her level. “Elita, Optimus knew his choice ran the risk of losing you. He put the lives of every Autobot before his spark. He isn’t a commander. He’s _the_ commander. _He_ is the mouthpiece of Primus, the will of the universe and he is just one mech standing alone between the Autobots and Megatron, and trying to keep more mechs alive than he loses in the next battle, and he still misses the silent records rooms when he had just been a dockloader. Will you put him out of your life because he chose the good of the many over the happiness of one?”

Elita snarled, “Then suddenly I’m supposed to change who _I am_ , everything I have worked for to support him? Am I supposed to give up on _my_ troops? Is his many greater than my few?”

Ratchet fell silent and shook his helm, “He stands for all Autobots. Not just the ones that like him.”

Elita ran her hands over face. “When we were altered, Orion had been shoved into grunt bootcamp by Sentinel. He looked for me, everywhere. Once I was released from the Ancients, I looked for him, found him and made sure I never let him go.”

“You had the freedom of being a newly formed bot in a base of many. How many mechs were at Rura Penthe?” Ratchet sat on the floor, watching as Elita’s face fell.

“When I became _this_ ,” Elita’s fingers ghosted over her own frame, “There were nearly a million mechs in Iacon.”

“And, when you lot saved me from Rura Penthe, there were a few _hundred_. We returned with nearly sixteen-thousand troops, fifteen-thousand pulled from Rura Penthe. Optimus didn’t have anonymity. He was _the_ Prime, and according to all three of you, not one slagging bot in the force has been willing to just talk to the mech. You didn’t trust the new Prime, didn’t trust the rank of Prime, didn’t trust the will of the Matrix; Primus femmling, what chance did _either_ of you give Optimus to even slagging talk to you? Because, if I remember correctly, Prowl barley spoke with him, Ironhide listened once or twice and you and Ultra Magnus couldn’t get away from him fast enough.”

Ratchet ran his hand over his face tiredly, “Elita, when did you give him a chance to tell you anything? He came when he was needed. He’s doing what he can. He lost mechs today, and you probably jumped him with an accusation never realizing that he blames himself for their loss. “ He nooded as she stared at him.

“Yes, Lancerunner was in here when Optimus Prime, the _great_ leader of the Autobots, commed her private frequency to _appologize_ for her troops lost in a sudden downpour. _He apologized over losses he had no control over._ You’re complaining about Optimus not telling you that he was Orion, that he still loved you, when Optimus is trying to save _thousands_ of lives and still agonizes over _fifty._ ” Ratchet stood stiffly.

“I think we just need time.” Elita spoke softly.

“Elita, if Megatron attacks tonight, and kills Optimus, could you go on with a clean concience?” Ratchet left the med bay.

Elita buried her face in her hands and keened. Cliffjumper scuttled out from under the repair table and into the hall. In the medbay Elita cried alone.


End file.
